“You don’t get to pretend you saved him,” you’d shouted. “You broke him!”

They said you were overreacting. They told you to calm down. That Kyle was alive and you should be grateful.

But alive doesn’t mean whole.

You slammed your door behind you, heart pounding. You could still hear their voices echoing through the walls — their excuses.

You didn’t notice Kyle sitting on the floor by your bed at first. But when you did — you froze. He looked up at you slowly. His eyes were red. Puffy. He’d heard everything.

Your breath caught. “Kyle—”

His fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt. Gently. Like he didn’t know if he was allowed.

And then he whispered—barely formed, barely a sound — “You... mad?”

Not at him. But he’s scared you are.

You kneel down. His hands reach for your face but don’t quite touch. He’s waiting for permission. Waiting to know if you still want him.

You grab him and pull him in.

“I’m not mad at you. I’m mad for you.”

And for the first time that night — he breathes.